Goodbye
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Set the night before Badon Hill. Arthur and Lancelot have a proper farewell. No slash. Sentimental friendship. Angst.


A/N: Meh. No, it's not a habit again. Just taking an Arthurian-relevant class right now and so was re-inspired.

This is set the night before the Battle of Badon Hill, in the film.

No slash. But sentimental friendship.

* * *

_Goodbye_

* * *

Arthur did not ask for Guinevere that night, nor did she come on her own. None of his knights showed up, demanding an explanation of his decision to stay. He blew out his candle and lay down in bed, heavy hearted; he knew he couldn't go back to Rome now. But he didn't feel anymore at home here than he could in that faraway city. He would stay because he had nowhere else to go.

A long while passed with him lying there in the dark. He drifted in and out of light sleep but couldn't stay down. It was no wonder when he sat up at a soft knock, exhausted but expecting an emergency. He felt for the door handle and bolt and when he opened the door, he blinked at the torchlight in the hall.

Lancelot stood waiting.

"What is it?" said Arthur, leaning with one arm against the doorpost.

"I came to say—"

Lancelot stopped.

"I came because this may be the last time I see you," he said, his voice hard and steady.

Arthur slumped and looked away. After a moment, he stepped aside enough to let Lancelot in. When he shut the door, neither man could see the other.

"Let me find the candle," said Arthur.

"Don't bother," Lancelot said. "I don't need to see you to speak or to listen."

Arthur heard him sit on the bed.

"What more do you have to say? You know I cannot be swayed," he said.

"I know not to try," said Lancelot. "Damned fool."

Arthur sighed and crossed his arms.

"Lancelot, I need sleep," he said. "I could recite your anger to myself, so do me the favor of saving it."

Lancelot moved, but Arthur realized it wasn't off the bed.

"Let this be as it was all these years," his knight said. "One last time."

Arthur felt a grief he'd been ignoring rise into his throat. He hung his head but couldn't see the floor. The two men were silent, blind to each other and everything.

Arthur crossed the small space to his bed, bent down and felt for it, rested his weight once he found it. He lay down, and Lancelot closed the gap between them with his arm around Arthur and head on his chest. Arthur stared up at nothing and bent his arm up, hand gripping Lancelot's arm. He could smell the mist and smoke in his hair.

"I will miss you," the knight said. Arthur's mouth tightened and his eyes burned hot tears into the pillow beneath him. He tilted his head to rest on Lancelot's.

"And I you."

They fell quiet this way, until Lancelot spoke again.

"I will never love anyone as I have loved you."

Arthur clenched his eyes shut, rolled against his friend, and looped his arm around him. They held each other, breast to breast, brow to brow, their legs entangled.

"Lancelot," Arthur said. "Please don't forsake that love now, not now, when I need it most."

"Never."

Arthur curled his fingers into Lancelot's back, squeezing the shirt cloth, but Lancelot's hand was flat against Arthur, first still and then stroking.

"I love you more than any man should love what isn't God."

"I need no god in your stead," said Lancelot.

Arthur let the blasphemy go.

"When I die, I will think of you last," Lancelot said. "And if I go to Rome, I will look for you. If to this island, I will look. If you die—"

His voice trembled and failed. He could not go further.

"We will be written down in history," said Arthur, his friend's tears collecting in the crook of his neck. "The world will know what we had."

Lancelot pulled away from him enough to kiss his cheek, and Arthur's hand found his face, thumb stroking across and marking the place for his own lips. They drew together again and would not be parted. They could find no more words for their anguish. They lay together until each thought the other asleep, listening to breath and pulse, trying to memorize the feel of the other's weight, touch, smell.

"Lancelot."

"Arthur."

They wept until they could feel each other's heart hitch, bodies shaking against each other, snaking their loose arms around each other, holding on with both. The morning would part them forever, and too great a crime that was.

Lancelot cradled Arthur to him and kissed his chest, where the beating should be, and Arthur kissed his head, where hair and brow met.

"None will know this friendship again," said Lancelot.

"No," said Arthur.

They spoke no more and slept.

In the morning, Arthur was alone.


End file.
